Speak, girl, I tell myself. No one will bite you.
Surely no slender-fingered flautist could produce
such a sweet gentle tone as my voice is sure to be.
Men will drop their guard.
Women will smile and mean it.
Speak, girl. It'll be fine.
So I do, and a concussive bass explosion of broken grinding gears
shatters the stemware for miles around.
The floor shakes.
Deaf people swivel their heads in sudden fear.
Birds shut up because their tiny hearts explode.
Women exchange looks.
"Oh honey," says some perfect size 2, her hand on her friend's arm,
"She's a T-Rex."
I can't get my arms around my stupid life.
I can't get my arms around anything, really.
"Sweetie, I wish I had your skinny arms.
I'd wear nothing but sleevleless dresses all summer long."
Oh cram it.
Bet you don't wish you had these thunder thighs.
I go through oceans of Olay and still, look at the scales!
No one will ever love me;
I may as well go lay an egg.
"Sugar pea, don't be so shy!
There's a lid for every pot.
Come on now,
don't hide your light under a bushel!"
Is this chick insane?
Look at me.
(Which is exactly what everyone does after I get over my endless five-head,
lean into the light,
and snap her up in my enormous jaws.)
"Bless her heart," says some bottle blonde, loud enough to be sure I hear.
"It's the Majorette for the Gross Eater's Parade."
When she and her friend titter,
it sounds like a slender-fingered flautist on her best day ever.
At Toads, Sherry wants us to speak in the voice of another.